The Lying Detective
by Saturn-Jupiter
Summary: There are many worlds. In this world, the events of Death Note occur slightly later and the events of Sherlock occur slightly earlier, and the events of both are irrevocably and tragically intertwined.
1. Prologue 1

**The Lying Detective**

 **Prologue #1**

 **2** **nd** **December**

 **Two days before the ICPO meeting**

The room was silent, made cavernous and dark and foreboding by the high ceiling, hardwood floor and blackout curtains. Although warm with heat effusing throughout the cavern from the wooden floor, many of the few individuals who knew of the room did their very best to avoid it. In the centre of the room lay a silent and lifeless monitor with a meagre selection of allies connected, like itself, to the dormant computer. Suddenly, noise perforated the silence as the door swung open smoothly on its hinges and projected a satisfied hum. Light flooded in from the corridor, bathing the floor and walls and curtains, exposing their dull colours. A shadow cut through the light and moved forward excitedly before the door shut abruptly and the room plunged into darkness once more.

Brief, but rhythmic padding echoed violently around the room accompanied by discordant, persistent tapping. The introduction was bought to a swift end as a click sounded, signalling the roar about to permeate the room as the computer sprung into life. Electrical, mechanical whirring filled the almost empty space as the monitor turned on, blindingly bright in its enthusiasm to display the computer's interface. The electronic symphony was interrupted briefly by the ruffling of clothes: the distinctive scratch of denim on denim flitted around the room as the intruder took a seat on the floor directly in front of the monitor's optimistic light.

 _Four days_ , pondered the intruder as he tapped his index finger lightly against his bottom lip. Even before calls had started coming in from some of the more astute members of various institutions and governments, it was obvious that something was off. Not so much a thread loose in the world, but a valuable item of clothing torn asunder by threads surgically removed. He paused. Perhaps that was somewhat of an exaggeration, but drama was in his blood; should it come as any surprise that such drama might also suffuse into his thoughts? Regardless, something was afoot and what was afoot seemed to be rather gleefully refusing to comply with current human understanding.

 _310 deaths in four days isn't unusual. The world will never be free of war, crime and corruption. No. There's nothing unusual about 310 deaths in four days. But, 310 people_ dying _from heart attacks in four days? That alone_ is _suspicious. No one just drops dead from a heart attack, not instantaneously at least. They might develop arrhythmia, go into cardiogenic shock or experience heart rupture, but to die of the heart attack itself? Unlikely._

 _Sudden cardiac arrest would be another story: you have just minutes to live unless urgent medical treatment is immediately available. That's not what's happening. I've received rushed autopsies from three countries and all have confirmed one impossible, but present truth. Victims suffered a heart attack and then immediately died. The valves of the heart appeared to have simply slammed closed, preventing the heart from pumping blood out or in and the victim then died immediately. No amount of CPR or surgical intervention had helped any of the 90 individuals where it had been attempted. 310 people dying of medically inexplicable heart attacks within four days? It could, of course, be a bizarre coincidence, but what do we say about coincidence?_

"The universe is rarely so lazy," mused a deep, monotone voice before humming off into further contemplative silence.

 _Now, currently, the number of people on the planet suspecting – like myself – that something more nefarious is going on is less than ten. Of those ten individuals, five are in positions that allow them to investigate without provoking attention – I wouldn't have got those autopsy reports if this wasn't the case. Two of those have notified their respective police forces that will no doubt have started investigating on their own. They are likely to notice the pattern soon. The reason they're so likely to notice soon is that a significant proportion of these deaths have taken place within an institution. It didn't particularly matter where. A hospital, a government, a bank, a business: any of these could have been targeted and it would arouse suspicion equally as quickly. No. It didn't matter that so many of these deaths had happened within prisons, although that detail did provide some interesting hints._

 _No. There was no doubt. 310 deaths in prisons globally from heart attacks? These weren't deaths; they were too unusual, there was too much of a pattern. No, somehow these were murders,_ he paused, smiling to himself. This was undoubtedly the most significant and wide-reaching case of mass murder the world had ever seen and, in his musings on the case, he had already devised 50 ways in which the murders could have been performed.

 _The issue is,_ he considered, running his thumb across the seam of his lips, _That all of these methods require accomplices, networks, quite simply: other individuals in the know. No amount of digging has uncovered even the barest hint that more than one person might be involved and it matters not how well hidden they may be, there are always traces or scents, paths to be followed. No, all of this points to one individual, an unparalleled killer._

A sudden crackling and crunching sounded within the room, deafeningly loud against the silence. Fingers audibly fumbled against something plastic and mass-produced before neatly tearing off the seal and letting it glide down to the floor. More noise crackled throughout the room as hands fumbled further, penetrating the package and grabbing a handful of sugar-coated chocolate goodness. Funnelling the sweets into his mouth with a pale, cupped hand, the young man pondered this new case further.

 _Serial killers, spree killers and mass murderers don't start out that way. Like any craft, becoming a successful killer takes practice. There is a period of learning, when the technique originally conceived and played out exclusively in the mind is put into practice for the first time and then altered and developed as appropriate. Additionally, most do not start with their plans. The first kill is usually accidental or, sometimes, intentional, but no serial killer starts with 24 victims and a perfect MO. Yet this case, it just defies the norm at every possible turn. They appear to have just started suddenly and out of the blue, but there must have been a build-up. There must have been guinea pigs, experiments. There must be traces somewhere. The question: where to look?_

 _Oh,_ he sighed, bringing his train of thoughts to an abrupt and sudden stop. His dark, tired eyes drifted downwards before the truth hit him, _There are no M &Ms left. Well, that's disappointing._

Now free of the chemical, but sugary goodness, his hand glided down towards the mouse on the floor, a single index finger resting on the graceful curve of the mouse. A second finger landed seconds after, shortly before the mouse was propelled forward, guiding its on-screen avatar towards various files and documents. Rapid clicking sounded throughout the room, precise and controlled like military gunfire. The noise ceased as abruptly as it began and the fingers were dragged from the mouse, floating gently upwards until they landed on lips, pulling downwards as the detective pondered the information before him.

 _It's already possible to start constructing a profile of this serial killer,_ he began mentally, pulling up files sent by the few individuals who had noticed something significant and world-changing was underway, _First, they're probably male. It's not impossible they're female and, of course, if the case progresses and there are no immediately suspect characters, it's worth revising this point, but I'd bet serious money on them being male. Second, they're probably young. They've been killing convicted killers, rapists, criminals, many of whom were awaiting the death penalty anyway, but not all convicted criminals are in fact guilty. This is a simple fact and yet the killer does not seem to particularly care, or if they do, this isn't a point they've considered. This all suggests someone young with an underdeveloped understanding of right and wrong, or perhaps someone sheltered in some way – secured in a bubble of similarly-minded individuals._

 _Third, it is very likely they live and were raised in a country with capital punishment: statistically, individuals raised in countries operating the death penalty are more likely to view it is as justified, and even right. Whilst it's not entirely implausible that this isn't the case, this killer believes and supports the death penalty, and they more than likely believe that countries lacking it sorely require it. Additionally, if they're not Japanese, then they are Japanese-speaking. This is by far the biggest tell, the greatest certainty. The killer's victims are from various countries around the world but there are two distinctive and limiting factors: language and technology. Of the 310 victims I've uncovered so far, those that were not Japanese were from countries with significant English-language press or English-language news coverage. So clearly, as well as Japanese, the killer is fluent in English._

 _Now, the mindset,_ he continued, hesitating for a second as he regretted eating the M&Ms as quickly as he had. They were the crispy ones too. He should have rationed them more efficiently. Making a mental note to do just that next time, his thoughts returned to the case at hand, _The killer is young, believing firmly and rather naïvely in a very black-and-white sense of justice, likely believing that it is not only just to kill criminals, but also that this is necessary. More significantly, this person has killed 310 people in four days. No single individual should be capable of this, not without consequences to their mental health, so somehow, the methods for killing allow significant distance from the victim._

 _This isn't someone pulling a trigger or someone telling someone to pull a trigger, but someone far enough removed from the action and its consequences that they feel no guilt at all. Couple this with their belief in their own righteousness and the facts all point towards one simple truth. This killer is the most dangerous individual to have ever lived: a man believing himself to be a god with the ability to kill anyone, anywhere without any accomplices or allies to hold him back or hold him to account._

 _He's not a god though. A god wouldn't need to test their method first and test this person did. It was simply a question of where and when to look,_ the detective thought to himself briefly, running through his ideas again. He acknowledged faults in his theories and deductions where he found them and marked those he found to be particularly solid or feasible. After performing this process twice, he nodded once to himself before taking hold of the mouse once more and beginning his search online, _Assuming the killer is in Japan and Japanese first makes the most sense: the population of Japanese speakers is highly concentrated in one area and otherwise, the whole process will be like looking for a needle in a haystack._

 _Now, the killer is using new sources to find his victims – every single victim had been named by a news website or channel,_ he considered, before he limited his search to Japanese new sources, _Two days are most likely to present the information needed – the first day of the killings and the day preceding it. This is, of course, reliant on the assumption that the culprit is indeed young and righteous. If they are, they would have been recklessly eager to begin and would have committed fully and quickly to the idea._

Regardless of how much he had managed to narrow down his search, the information to be sifted through was still significant and, unlikely though it was, a false deduction would mean the whole process was a wild goose chase. However, you do not take the top three spots of any ranking without being excellent at what you do and he had found what he was looking for within 10 minutes. Had anyone been there in the room with him, they would have known the exact moment he had found what he was looking for. His face suddenly brightened with an expression that was halfway between a smile and a smirk. As time progressed, the smile faded and the smirk became more prominent before gradually falling away as he considered what his findings meant.

 _Kuro Otoharada, a suspect in Shinjuku who had taken eight people hostage in a daycare centre the day after attacking six people in a shopping district,_ the detective paused from his thoughts long enough to issue a sigh and a heart-felt eye-roll, _Within an hour of this story hitting the news, he died suddenly. The hostages claimed he had collapsed but these later articles confirm that Kuro Otoharada died of a heart attack. One day before the killings began. Even more interestingly, this story made national news in Japan, but was not reported anywhere else._

"How very interesting," mumbled the detective to himself. Although his face was expressionless, the apparently lifeless eyes were positive glistening and would likely continue to do so whether the monitor was on or off.

 _Somewhere out there, probably in Japan, is a deluded young man with a very naive sense of justice and a frankly unnerving weapon who has already killed 311 people. Questions remain of course, chief among them being: How? How are these murders taking place? How is this man killing people this quickly when the victims are thousands of miles apart? How?_

"Watari," began L, "Interpol will be having a meeting very soon. You'll need to make your way over to Lyon."

"I see," replied the soft, familiar voice, "I'll begin making preparations right away."

"Oh," L declared, knowing all too well that Watari would cut off the connection and begin immediately, "And Watari?"

"Yes?" smiled Watari in response, already predicting – entirely accurately – the next words he was going to hear.

"Could you buy me some macaroons while you're there?" demanded L politely with an answering, though unseen, smile, "You know the ones. A tray or two if you could."

"Of course," Watari replied before pausing for an uncharacteristically long time, continuing with a delicate, careful tone, "MH called."

"He did," said L, unsure whether he was asking or stating. L's pause was not uncharacteristically long, but it was indeed long enough to betray the volume of his feelings to Watari. L could almost hear Watari's silent nod over the connection before it cut out. Gracefully rising to his feet, L headed towards the door. There was little doubt in his mind.

 _I need more M &Ms._


	2. Prologue 2

**The Lying Detective**

 **Prologue #2**

 **9** **th** **August**

 **Four months after the events at Sherrinford**

"Good girl, Rosie!" he exclaimed, squeezing what he felt to be frankly absurd levels of delight into his voice as he clasped his hands together and contorted his face into an expression of wonder. He had read that young children, especially before true recognition sets in, like that sort of thing. Going by Rosie's apparent squeal of delight, there was some degree of truth to that. As wide eyes turned to him and her face crumpled and crinkled into an expression of simple joy, he felt his heart melt and knew that the expression on his face had melted into one of warm affection. There was something about her uncomplicated joy that drew genuine happiness from him.

She was growing normally, no faster than any other child, and Sherlock would have conceded there being something to the 'they grow up so fast' adage if it wasn't his own experience that time moved exactly as it should rather in spite of human experience. She was growing at precisely the same approximate speed as others of her age. Although, she was getting very good at matching colours and her fine motor skills were developing ever so slightly faster than the average child, but that was probably connected to the toy that had arrived last week.

Much to Sherlock's amusement, because John Watson probably had one of the most expressive faces to have ever graced the United Kingdom's soil, John had been as horrified by the toy's expense as he had been genuinely moved by the depth and volume of feeling that it represented. Sherlock had received a hug and a punch on the shoulder for purchasing Rosie's latest educational toy. A few months ago, he might have told himself that the toy was unimportant and evidenced nothing, but – although he would only ever express it out loud under duress – he had learned to stop lying to himself about his feelings.

Months ago, he would have dismissed the purchase of a custom-made, periodic table-based shape sorting box as a simple gift, just something purchased on a whim. Now he could admit, at least within the sanctity of his own mind, that he loved having Rosie at Baker Street and that the toy was part of a steadily growing collection purchased especially so he could watch the pleasure on her still-tiny face. He could admit that he had stayed awake later than usual just to plan and design the shape sorting box and that he had stolen Mycroft's phone to ring abroad to find a supplier that could handcraft and deliver it as quickly as possible. Of course, all of this he admitted only within the confines of his own mind.

As he watched Rosie pick up the Al block and stare at the box thoughtfully, a shrill alarm screeched throughout the living room. Heaving himself off the floor unenthusiastically, Sherlock stomped over to his chair. Unsurprisingly, his phone was ringing, vibrating and quivering and screaming up at him from the chair's arm. When the screen illuminated, flashing intermittently in concert with the vibrations, Sherlock was able to discern the name onscreen. A powerful groan escaped him as he saw his brother's name on the screen. Distantly, as if having also seen the phone screen, Rosie whined despondently and threw the aluminium block towards the door. Sherlock couldn't agree with her sentiment more as he picked up the phone.

"Sherlock."

He paused. Everything he had planned on expressing in that moment, mostly about his complete lack of interest in listening to his brother's moaning about some stupid case involving a cabinet minister's secret lover, evaporated instantly and his brain went into overdrive. He had heard Mycroft use tones like this on very few occasions and had, correctly, come to associate them with bad news. It wasn't the panicked, distressed undercurrent present whenever Euros was somehow involved, or the pained, sympathetic one detectable when discussing something amiss with John or Mrs Hudson or Greg or Molly. This was his upset tone, mild though it was. Sherlock imagined that this was how he would sound if Sherlock's ability to escape death suddenly ran out.

"Mycroft?"

Just as Sherlock had deciphered his brother's tone and worriedly considered its potential significance, Mycroft too heard his brother's nervous cry. Sherlock had been degrees more free with his feelings since the events of Sherrinford, but even if he hadn't been, his apprehension would likely have been equally as evident. What little satisfaction Mycroft felt at the reassurance he and his brother still had a strong bond was crushed by knowledge; tragic knowledge that he had to impart to his dear brother. His own feelings would be exposed within the next few minutes and he could only hope that Sherlock would be sympathetic, rather than cruel. After all, he had started to be freer with his feelings, but the habit of a lifetime cannot be shaken off overnight and occasionally, ignorant unkindness seeped out.

"It's Julia Sato."

"She's dead?"

"Yes."

"Lawliet?"

"Alive."

Sherlock felt relief surge through him before his insides ran cold. Why was Mycroft so audibly upset then? If Lawliet was alive, then why on earth would Mycroft be so upset? He knew Mycroft had grown emotionally attached to Julia and Lawliet – which Sherlock would have found amusing given his brother's habit of declaring that 'caring isn't an advantage' if he didn't understand precisely why – but why would her death upset him so much? He mulled it over a few seconds before it all seemed to click into place.

"Trauma?"

Mycroft smiled weakly, grateful he didn't need to voice what they both knew to be the truth. For the truth was that Mycroft saw so much of Sherlock in Lawliet. He saw an opportunity to protect that which he had previously failed to. He saw a young Sherlock, undamaged by the world, still open and capable of feeling so much. And Sherlock had correctly understood Mycroft's grief and, indeed, the likely cause of it. Mycroft had seen in Lawliet a young Sherlock that he had not failed so much, in so many ways. Now, Mycroft could see the first mark of his failure and that hurt him deeply, far more deeply than he felt he should allow.

"It is… significant."

"Is he with you now?"

"Yes."

"Can I speak to him?"

"He's asleep."

"Asleep?"

"Sedated."

"Ah, I see," Sherlock nodded, "And you're bringing him here?"

"I thought it best. Mummy is… distressed, and I am not an appropriate candidate."

"And I did donate half of his genes."

"I am aware, thank you for that."

Sherlock smirked, "Are you near?"

"Five minutes away."

Sherlock's pause was long enough to indicate confirmation before he hung up and threw his phone back onto the chair. In long, graceful, sweeping strides, he moved back over to Rosie. He flew her up into the air and cradled her into his chest with one arm as he wrestled the bee-themed baby swing out of the corner where he had earlier ruthlessly shoved it with the other. Once freed, he placed it on the ground and cuddled Rosie into the soft, yellow plush of the seat, securing her in with the straps and turning on the swing. He pirouetted on the spot neatly and precisely and bowed to collect the various elements that were lying around the floor having not made it into the table with the other elements.

Just as he was moving the shape sorting box away, which in actuality meant forcing it into the corner he had just retrieved the swing from, the door downstairs clicked open. Soft orders could be heard spoken in careful, shushed whispers as footsteps sounded on the steps of the flat. The door was already open and Mycroft entered first, gesturing instructions to the men that followed behind him. Sherlock barely noticed the two men enter carrying their cargo gently on a stretcher, distracted as he was by the contours of his brother's face. Sherlock had always known his brother cared for him, but he often forgot just how deeply.

He was broken from his musings by the two men leaving and Rosie's screech for attention. He reached Rosie in two strides, running a hand gently over her head before swapping the swing to a different setting and returning his attention to the matter at hand. He looked up at Mycroft's face, having examined his brother's affected posture, observing the way his hand was gripping his umbrella handle ever so slightly too tightly. Silently, Sherlock lent over to his right and pulled a chair out from underneath the desk, carrying it one step forward and placing it just a metre away from Mycroft's left hand.

"Thank you," smiled his brother weakly and Sherlock recognised it for what it was: forced pleasantness masking heartache. Sherlock was all too familiar with the feeling and turned his attention to the young child now curled up on his sofa.

"When did that start?" queried Sherlock, not having to gesturing in any way for it to be clear he was referring to the boy's peculiar sleeping position. Sherlock had of course seen him in a similar position before, but only due to lack of space and never whilst asleep.

"After the incident," sighed Mycroft, only just managing to resist the urge to massage his forehead, "Immediately after, according to the reports."

"What happened, Mycroft?"

In the moment it had taken Mycroft's mouth to open, more footsteps could be heard on the stairs. These feet were panicked, rushed, leaping off each step and jumping over one each time. John was running up the stairs. He had likely seen the black van parked outside, clocked Mycroft's very conspicuous personnel and assumed something had gone horribly wrong. Guilt thrummed through Sherlock powerfully as his very best and closest friend flew into the room, full of adrenaline and prepared for anything and everything, except perhaps the sight of a young boy curled up on the sofa.

"His name is Lawliet," began Sherlock, observing questions flickering in John's eyes, "He's my… uh… son."

If Sherlock had forgotten how fast John's head could snap from one position to another, he was instantly reminded upon ending his sentence. John's expression was a multitudinous and shifting tumultuous mass of emotions and Sherlock knew he needed to nip 90% of John's thoughts in the bud immediately before he started making too many false, idiot conclusions. Sherlock could already see John's eyes snapping to Lawliet's face, before becoming distant, as if he was trying to search his memory for faces to match the features to.

"It was Mummy's idea," stated Mycroft as dispassionately as he could in his current, affected state, interrupting before Sherlock could construct the least offensive way of telling John not to hurt his idiot mind thinking too hard, "Mummy forced us both to donate sperm. This boy, Lawliet, is thankfully the only consequence of Mummy's whim."

"Thank god," smirked Sherlock, his comment made playful only by the light dancing in his eyes, "The thought of more Mycrofts running around is enough to turn my stomach."

"Thank you, brother dear," retorted Mycroft with words dripping thickly with sarcasm, "For your very kind words."

The two turned from their brief exchange to observe John. If John were a record, which he of course wasn't, then he would be one stuck, caught looping a note shrilly. If John were a computer, none of the programs would be responding or functioning in any significant way. He looked very much like a man whose world had been turned upside down. The two brothers glanced at each other, sharing an expression confirming their mutual belief that they may have irrevocably broken John Watson. A quick glance back to John's face, however, assuaged their concerns as his face began to morph into fond exasperation – a face Sherlock had been gratefully receiving more of in recent months.

"Anything else I should know?" he snapped, likely sharper than he'd intended, "I don't suppose _he_ has a secret, psychotic sibling hidden away on an island somewhere too, does he?"

Sherlock frowned ever so slightly. John had been through so much and he had seemed to be making progress. It made Sherlock happier than he could express in words to see his dearest friend recovering from the various ordeals he had faced together with Sherlock over the past few years. It was pleasant to watch John settle back into his skin. However, under moments of stress like this, Sherlock could see the fracture lines creaking and straining. The fond exasperation was being pulled taut at the edges, stretched tightly into deeper, hidden depths. Betrayal and grief flitted about the edges, with just a hint of anger present as he clenched his fists tightly. Taking all of this in, it occurred to Sherlock that perhaps he should have mentioned Lawliet at some earlier point.

"Not that we're aware of," smiled Sherlock, before his face softened and he added demurely, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

John fired his eyes to Sherlock's, staring into their depths for a moment before he nodded sharply and neatly, every bit the military doctor. John's body language began to soften gradually in small degrees as he absorbed and considered Sherlock's apology. It was possible to distinguish the exact moment when John's internal battle with his emotions had ended: ceasefire agreed, John's eyes shifted from Sherlock's. They glided from Sherlock to Rosie, brightening in delight as he watched her bat the plush bees about in wonderment, before they landed on the sofa and, more specifically the frame of the young boy that was curled upon it.

Sherlock watched, keenly curious as John's eyes raked over the boy's frame. This was Doctor John Watson observing an individual, assessing them and deciding whether they were to be a patient or not. Sherlock had, of course, observed John examining bodies before, and occasionally distressed clients, bystanders and witnesses too, but he found it fascinating nonetheless. What Sherlock found particularly interesting was the way in which John was clearly holding himself back, fighting against his internal desire to approach Lawliet and look for other signs that might indicate what had happened.

Sherlock had no doubt that John had observed, or at least seen, everything that he had. He had no doubt observed the ragged nails, sooty but still bitten down to the nail and, even, slightly into the bed. He had no doubt observed the blisters and burns, incisions and dried blood on the hands and wrists. He had no doubt also observed the distinctive bags under the eyelids, made all the more stark by the boy's ghostly-white pallor and thick black locks. John had likely already come to the conclusion that the boy had been involved in a fire, had somehow received injuries to his hands and wrists, and had been sedated.

"What happened to him?"


	3. Chapter 01

**The Lying Detective**

 **Chapter 1**

 **4** **th** **December**

 **Five hours before the ICPO meeting**

There was a strange, oppressive atmosphere in the building; there had been for several days. There were rushed whispers in corridors that fell silent the instant footsteps could be heard, muffled though they were by the industrial blue carpet. Everyone's badges were hidden away behind ties and jackets – visible enough to be seen, but not enough to be read or examined in great detail. People seemed to be walking more hurriedly despite the unsettled calm otherwise blanketing the institution.

It seemed as though the disquieted secrecy had been slipping into all departments. She had only been in her office for five minutes when the email came around to go to a meeting in a room on the top floor on the other side of the building in the English booth. Given the other addresses included in the email, it was not going to be an especially long meeting, or at least, it was going to be a very uncomfortable meeting if it was going to be on the longer side.

With all the secrecy and confidential documents that had been passing through the department over the past few days, this sudden meeting was likely connected to this "Kira" problem. From the few documents she had seen herself, it sounded as though there might be some sort of serial killer on the loose globally, but the documents had clearly been rushed and were painfully vague. She had spent the past two days nursing a headache from the poor source texts she had been receiving and the uncomfortably tight deadlines she had been given in which to make sense of them and translate them.

The room was silent and dark, she observed as she peered through the window of the Arabic booth. It had not yet been set up, but the meeting was not for another few hours yet, and if it was as confidential as she suspected it might be, it would likely only be prepared minutes before the start. She carried on walking towards the English booth, following the sloping curve of the wall. As she came up on the booth, she waved weakly at her colleagues, approaching with a similarly weak smile. Guillermo nodded slightly, slouching against the wall with his hands punched into his pockets. Éline waved vibrantly, cheeks already punctuated red as they so often were.

"Where's Zahra?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

"In the booth," replied Éline, gesturing towards the English booth's closed door, "It's been closed since we arrived."

"Have you knocked?" she queried, thinking to herself that her question was stupid even as it escaped her mouth.

Neither Éline nor Guillermo had time to nod or respond in any way before the door opened inwards suddenly. Unusually, the booth was lit brightly and its light bathed sections of the darkened room below in warm yellow. Zahra held the door open and gestured them all inside. It would have been a bit cramped with the four of them, particularly for a meeting, but with a fifth especially ominous-looking figure taking up one seat and half of the desk, it was even more cramped than she had anticipated upon receiving the email.

"There's not a lot of room and the meeting will only be short," began Zahra, sliding the door closed behind them, "So we'll just stand for now."

"Zahra, what is going on?" whispered Guillermo before anyone could speak, "Who is this? What is with all this hiding?"

"My apologies for the secrecy, but I assure you it is quite necessary."

She was reassured to find Guillermo and Éline looking similarly perturbed, scanning the room as a voice, clearly not belonging to the figure sporting an unusual hat, sounded around the small booth. The ominous figure, black balaclava twisting round his mouth as a smile seem to form underneath, gestured slowly and elegantly to an open laptop situated on the desk between the monitors and interpreting equipment. The laptop – small, lightweight and new – was showing a blank screen, blank but for a small green spot flashing in the upper left-hand corner. She could not hide the expression of confusion from her face as she turned back to look at Zahra.

"I take it you've all heard of L?"

And suddenly it all clicked into place. Everyone had heard of L and Watari. It was impossible to work in international law enforcement and not be familiar with the names. They were whispered legend-rumours and a huge source of speculation at the ICPO headquarters in Lyon. The pair even had a rule in the style guide for the few lucky enough to be sent a document mentioning their names: anyone translating a text mentioning them was to use exclusively gender-neutral terms – a task rather less challenging for English than for the ICPO's other official languages. She had never once imagined she would ever encounter them beyond a passage in a text somewhere. Beyond intense surprise, she was not sure how else to feel and looked to Zahra for more information.

"L has a special arrangement with the language services department," explained Zahra, gesturing deferentially to the laptop, "I'll let L fill you in."

"Thank you, Zahra," began L, "When I am to take part in a meeting, I provide the heads of booths for that meeting with phones."

As if on cue, the black-cladded figure in the corner picked up a tray from the desk and lay it on his lap. Upon the thin metal tray were four mobile phones. They were distinctive only because of their age. All of those in the room were old enough to recognise the indomitable Nokia 3310 when they saw it. As L began speaking once more, the figure – presumably Watari – lifted the tray up, bouncing it once gently to indicate they were to each take one phone, before placing the empty tray back on the desk once more.

"I'll ring each of these phones shortly before I'm to speak and will only disconnect once I'm sure that I will not be speaking again. Once the meeting is over, you're to leave the phones in the booth. Watari will collect them. Any questions?"

"Why?" asked Guillermo, turning the phone around in his hand and examining it critically, "We can understand you fine. Why all this trouble?"

"I use a voice modulator," explained L with a soft sigh, as though having heard the question a million times before, "And I understand it can make interpretation more challenging than it already is."

She hummed in surprise, the noise catching in her throat and sounding degrees more surprise than she actually felt. She glanced to her left and found Éline and Guillermo both looking equally as surprised. It was exceptionally unusual for any individual to ever give even a passing thought to the interpreters. Particularly in meetings when the interpreters were hidden away in a booth, nothing more than a voice over a headset; no one ever spared them much of a thought. To hear that someone had not only considered them, but also found a system to in fact facilitate their work beyond providing documents in advance, was quite surprising.

"Why English?" she asked, swallowing on her tongue in her nervousness, "Why does the English booth need a phone?"

"Hmmm," L mused, sounding thoughtful but for a slight change in sound quality, as though he was covering his mouth, "Well, depending on the meeting, I might need to speak one of the other official languages."

"I see," nodded Éline, "This is why you don't need to hear our interpreting."

"Correct."

The room fell silent for a short while, punctuated by muffled rustling from the laptop. Zahra turned to her fellow interpreters and began explaining how they would have to lay out the situation in full to both internal and external boothmates. She also began explaining how they were to behave, likely relaying information she had received in private before inviting the other interpreters inside. They were to keep the mobile phones with them until the meeting and nobody else in the booth was to be permitted access to the phone whilst the call was in progress. Even to interpreter-translators familiar with confidential documents and generally secretive international organisations, all of this felt more than a little cloak and dagger.

The meeting came to a conclusion a little over two minutes later. Zahra opened the door and all four interpreters headed out of the room, with Zahra leaning back in briefly to confirm that Watari could make his own way out. Out of habit and respect, the group remain silent as they walked down the corridor. With the door to the booth having been left open, the four could make out chuckled Japanese as they opened the door to exit the long, curling corridor. Once in the foyer outside, it did not take long before they all mutually agreed that the meeting that afternoon was going to be quite unlike the usual meetings.

* * *

 **Two hours into the ICPO meeting**

The meeting had been underway for over two hours already and it was looking more than likely that it would run overtime once more. This of course was not all that surprising as it occurred on a fairly regular basis. There was an unusual electricity in the air though, palpable tension convecting around the room and – even more unusually – seeping into the interpreting booths above. She could feel a rare tension in her own booth and, as she glanced to her right, she could see stress on her colleagues' faces, though their voices were likely steady and sure.

Clearly, this case had struck a chord, a discordant, out-of-tune string screeching against the senses. Even before the debate, when the various reports were being summarised, there was distinctive fidgeting in the room below. There was tutting and sighing, shaking heads and arms flung into the air. The microphones were sensitive enough and picked up the low groans and taps and ruffling suit jackets. It was nigh on impossible to ignore the energy of the room, when it was both visible and audible. When a room was as full of tension as this, a mistranslated word or misinterpreted phrase could be costly, so the pressure was on.

She had agreed in advance with her boothmate to take Arabic and French – she was more than happy to surrender all of the Spanish interpretation to her colleague: the Spanish speakers were particularly energetic today and she had spent the whole morning translating French. Not having Spanish to worry about, she could dedicate a quarter of her attention to the black Nokia 3310 on the desk next to her notepad. It was on vibrate, but she was hoping to catch it on the first ring, concerned that the microphone might pick it up if either she or her colleague were interpreting.

"France."

Her head snapped away from the phone to the monitor on her left. On automatic, she turned up the volume, hugging the left headphone closer to her ear with her left hand before letting her right index finger hover over the currently white button. She waited patiently, counting the seconds pass by as one of the French delegates shuffled forward in his seat and clicked the microphone on, a bright vibrant red encircling the black to indicate he was live. As soon as the first word left his mouth, her finger punched the button which properly turned a similarly bright and distinctive red.

" _Attendez, on ne sait même pas s'il s'agit bien de meurtres." /_ "Wait, we don't even know if these are in fact murders."

She punched the button, watching it turn white. She had finished just a second after he had. Training had always placed a healthy emphasis on ending quickly. Either you finish a second after the speaker because the language or the speed or the complexity leave you little choice, or you finish at the same time because the rest is easy to anticipate, or the language allows for a closer _d_ _é_ _calage_ – the distance between the original speaker and the interpreter. In a meeting this tense, anticipation was best avoided, but that meant ending as quickly as possible so as not to interrupt the flow of the meeting.

"Lead investigator."

"Then how did all these people have heart attacks at the exact same time?! That's not coincidence, it's murder!"

"France."

" _Vous envisagez sérieusement, _que quelqu'un a pu tous les tu_ _é_ _presque même temps sur un paramètre si large ?" /__ "Are you seriously suggesting that someone managed to kill them all at the same time in this many countries?"

"India."

"We're treating this as an elaborate murder plot that's being carried out by large organisation."

"Russia."

"If it is a large organisation, I'm sure I'm not alone in suspecting the FBI or CIA."

"I dare you to say that again!"

"America!" shouted the Chair, "One more outburst like that and you're out. Right, Austria."

"Now, now! This is not the time to be joking around. We need to confirm that these are indeed homicides and not coincidences."

"France."

" _Le fait est que tous les examens médico-légaux amènent à la même conclusion : crise cardiaque sans cause apparente." /_ "All the autopsies have come to the same conclusion: heart attack without obvious cause."

"South Africa."

"Investigating a series of heart attacks is pointless! I don't see what else we can learn."

"Sweden."

"Absolutely! If these people had been shot or stabbed, at least we'd have something to go on."

"Lead investigator."

"If that's the case, it looks like we'll have no choice but to bring in L."

The room fell silent for a few short seconds. Her boothmate turned to her, his face expressing surprise despite her having explained earlier that L would be joining the meeting at a later stage. Perhaps he had imagined she was lying to him, she mused briefly, before turning to her right and glancing at her fellow interpreters who had all started staring at their phones. The conference room below erupted into noise – the Chair throwing his head into his hands in exasperation – as the Nokia 3310 on her desk buzzed loudly, rattling on the desk in a tight circle. Her boothmate stared at the phone, nodding as he remembered her instructions and watching as she picked up and answered the phone.

"Hello," began the soft voice on the other end, "Watari is about to enter the room. Although the microphones are powerful, he's unlikely to be picked up, but you will be able to hear him over this line. I would appreciate it if you could interpret and respeak his words as you hear them. Additionally, I've discovered that at least five of the delegates are hard of hearing. English booth, I ask that you respeak for me – I wouldn't want delegates to miss out on what I'm saying purely because of the voice modulator. Best of luck, everyone."

Respeaking? It occurred to her suddenly the outsiders simply do not know these terms. Every industry and career has its gripes and terms and phrases and L seem to know them all. It went beyond that though. People encountering the sector, people who did not live it, would hear odd terms and phrases. They would confuse an interpreter with a translator and fail to understand relay or _d_ _é_ _calage._ There were even interpreters who might be unfamiliar with the term respeaking and translators unfamiliar with flow. Was it possible that L had worked in the industry? Or had he maybe just researched intently? The latter would not be too unlikely – the man was a world-renowned detective.

She was broken abruptly from her mental musings as she glimpsed a familiar black-cladded figure slipping silently into the room, which was roaring so loudly with noise that no one had yet seen him over the Chair's attempts to bring the session to order. Her boothmate had caught onto the drama and looked distinctly perturbed, and just a little bit concerned, by the new arrival. Calmly, she pulled the left headphone off her ear and hovered her finger over the microphone's button. Clutching the phone to her right ear, she explained all too briefly to her boothmate that she was going to be respeaking for the foreseeable future. She waited to hear Watari's voice on the line, briefly thinking to herself that he must be quite unpleasantly warm wrapped up in all those layers regardless of whether they were protecting his identity or not. He was still walking into the room as his voice boomed over the mobile's speaker.

"L is already on the move." she spoke, a split second after punching the button and finishing just one second after Watari.

Watari came to a stop just in front of the Chair, where the microphone was most likely to pick him up. It was a clever move. The room's attention had been snapped away by the interpretations in the headsets and drawn back to the front of the room by the rather imposing figure that Watari presented, clad entirely in black and obscuring his face. It was clear that most of the people in the room had recognised him, or, at the very least, received a hurried explanation rapidly. It was, at the very least, a particularly interesting method for bringing the session to order. She considered that the Chair might take some notes for future meetings.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began respeaking, "L has already begun their investigations."

As the room erupted into noise once more, she held her breath. It was all too easy to forget that the microphone was still live and everything was being transmitted directly and clearly into the headset of every delegate tuned into the English channel. She had to hold her breath to prevent the deep sigh of exasperation she wanted to heave out. This was the ICPO, you would think the delegates would have it in them to behave better than a class of rowdy secondary school children. It was little wonder L refused to interact directly with them.

"Please be silent," she repeated almost simultaneously, "L would now like to address the delegates."

"Greetings to all of you at the ICPO, I am L."

* * *

 **An hour after the ICPO meeting**

 _Buzz._

She paused, turning back towards the room.

 _Buzz-buzz._

The meeting was over. Watari had left the meeting half an hour earlier. The room was virtually empty. So why was the phone ringing?

 _Buzz-buzz._

More importantly perhaps: why was she answering it? All she wanted to do was go home and sleep.

 _Buzz-bu-_

"Hello?" she asked, her voice dragging out the word nervously and entirely without her consent.

"Ah, good!" began L, "I caught you before you left."

"Uhm," she hummed, mental processes frozen in place but still functioning just enough to question why on Earth he might be interested in talking to her, "Zahra – the head of the Arabic booth – has already gone, if you were trying to catch her."

"No," smiled L, voice amused, "I meant what I said. I was hoping to catch you before you left."

"Why'd you wanna talk to me?" she fired rather more aggressively than she intended; fatigue had battered through the last dregs of her well-cultivated manners, "Sorry. That was rude."

"I won't take much of your time. I was just wondering if you could tell me your name."

"Uhm, Julie."

"Thank you for your work today, Julie."

"Uh, thanks."

"Could you pass the phone to Watari, please?"

Julie leapt out of her skin as she looked up and saw Watari's menacing reflection in the glass of the interpreting booth. Hand catapulting its way to her chest, she gasped for breath, having been disproportionately surprised by Watari's arrival. Glad to be able to blame her inattention on fatigue, she hesitantly looked at the phone before placing it delicately into the leather-clad hand presented to her. Julie saw the balaclava twisting around Watari's mouth, into what she presumed – not entirely correctly – to be a smile. Once the phone was passed over, she began to make her way out of the door in a slightly dazed state. Softly spoken Japanese followed her as she walked down the corridor to leave. Even if she had spoken Japanese, she would not have been able to decipher anything of meaning from the conversation.

" _Her name was Julie._ "

" _Yes. Unless of course she was lying which seems unlikely._ "

" _British, too._ "

" _Do you have the macaroons?_ "

" _Of course._ "

" _Then I'll see you soon._ "

A wistful sigh punctuated the empty space.


	4. Chapter 02

**The Lying Detective**

 **Chapter 2**

 **12** **th** **August**

 **Two and a half days after L's arrival**

"Shush, shush," whispered a familiar voice, "I've got you."

A whine tore through the deadened silence of the flat, followed by frantic, flustered gasps for breath. More soft assurances sifted sweetly from underneath the door, barely audible over the panted, hurried gasps and moans and groans and whines. These were the sounds of grief and they were sounds with which John was all too well acquainted. He had heard them on various occasions and many times over the sound of his own pounding heart or listless pacing. These noises, however, plucked particularly viciously at his heartstrings. Perhaps it was because he was a father now.

He heaved a sigh, feeling as though it were being forcibly dragged out of him with a blunt fishing hook. Rubbing his face sluggishly, John trudged silently towards the kitchen. On automatic, he picked up the kettle before pausing and debating whether it would be too loud – whether the sound of it boiling would sink under the door and into the room nearby, whether the sound would even be heard over the fading remnants of the panic attack and Sherlock's soothing, warm tone.

John was not entirely certain how he felt about any of this. He could also no longer reliably judge how he would have reacted to his current situation in times gone by. He imagined that perhaps the John of before-Sherlock-fell might have been deeply surprised that his friend was capable of such considered caring support. Or maybe this same John would have been deeply moved that he had glimpsed the behaviour, been shown the soft heart and squishy centre of an apparently cold machine? What would the John of just-after-the-return have thought and felt? The John that had forgiven the fall? The John just after Mary's death? He could not be sure, but he considered that unlocking that knowledge might go some way to explaining the large, shifting mass of feelings twisting inside his chest.

Having filled the kettle whilst his musings distracted him from remembering his concern of making too much noise, John placed the kettle on its stand. He collected two familiar, well-loved mugs from the cabinet in front of him, dropping teabags in them and adding the required sugar levels to each mug. He was trapped deep in his thoughts, trying so desperately to untangle the knotted chain of sentiments bubbling and bouncing of the inside of his ribcage that he utterly failed to hear the soft padding of bare feet trickle into the kitchen from the room.

"Tea at this hour, John?" joked a weak, tired and drained voice from the other side of the island, "What would Mrs Hudson say?"

Turning around and probably failing to hide the fact that Sherlock had caught him off-guard, John replied, "She'd probably tell you to sit down before you fall down. Have you slept at all, Sherlock?"

The slight upturn of Sherlock's lips was all the answer he needed. Living with Sherlock and having known the man for as long as he had, he knew when the detective was beginning to push his limits. The man could go days without sleeping and longer on minimal, but regular sleep when working on the case, when there was a victim to be saved or a criminal to be caught. Now though? This was not a conventional case. This was not even similar to curing John psychosomatic limp. This was emotionally and physically taxing and with everything else that has happened over the past few years, it was hardly surprising that this was shoving powerfully at the detective's well-tested limits.

"Somewhat," he replied meekly, "Have you?"

"More than you," John answered, supposing that he was lucky Rosie had not been jolting awake – as he had – to a child's panicked cry.

An awkward silence followed so John turned around, putting the kettle on to boil and faffing around with whatever was to hand to distract him from the fact that there was even an awkward silence in the first place. They had been gradually fading away – the awkward silences – but occasionally, one would descend. It smothered the room in thick black slick, suffocating both of them with its coagulated thickness. The silence spoke of feelings and thoughts that would be expressed freely were it not for the seemingly unending wealth of hurt that continued to bubble beneath both of their skins.

It dragged on sluggishly and gratingly for literal minutes as the kettle boiled away. It stretched further as John poured the boiling water into the mugs, stirring clockwise immediately as the cascading water smashed into the teabags. The clinking and clanking of the teaspoon as it glanced the sides of the mugs penetrated the black mass that was the awkward silence between them, seeming to highlight it further rather than shatter it. Not even the sickly, clinical light of the fridge as he opened it to retrieve the milk did anything to alleviate or reduce the shifting, curdling coagulation rippling between them.

As he poured in the milk, the early hour making his performance sloppy, he wondered whether Sherlock was picking up on the silence. Since the nightmare of Sherrinford had ended, John had seen Sherlock slowly transforming, revealing the vulnerable softness he had always known existed. Sherlock the psychopath, Sherlock the high-functioning sociopath, the Sherlock that was in truth a memory of his sister, was slowly giving way to Sherlock the more obviously caring human. He was still the crazy detective with truly bizarre habits and careless disregard for various social norms, but the heart which John had occasionally glimpsed was visible more often with each day that passed.

John turned around, sliding Sherlock's mug across the table into his waiting hands as he made his way over to the fridge to return the milk. Once more, the kitchen was bathed in clinical, yellow light before being plunged back into the minimal light produced by the streetlamps outside. After picking up his own, slightly larger mug of tea, he placed it on the table before plonking himself into the chair with a sudden thump. Unlike Sherlock, John did not nurse the mug between his hands, instead mindlessly and gently caressing the mug with his thumb as his fingers loosely gripped the handle. The two men sat for a short while longer in silence, slowly slurping down tea before the tension was broken.

"I don't know what I'm doing, John," murmured Sherlock barely above a whisper, "I'm not the right person for this."

"Then who is?" asked John, already preparing soft rants in his head for the various answers he expected Sherlock might opt to use.

"His mother, ideally."

Well, John bizarrely had not been expecting that one. Sherlock straightened suddenly, realising quickly the error he had made. His face had shifted into one of regret and hurt and apology. In all honesty Sherlock had realised the offence, the hurt, the grief-fuelled burns his comment might cause faster than John had considered that the comment might offend him. John, of course, could not deny the fiery twist in his chest, but he waved his hand dismissively as Sherlock's mouth parted – likely about to plead forgiveness or dig himself further into the hole he had suddenly and unexpectedly dug for himself. Despite the dismissal, Sherlock's face retained the tiniest traces of hurt and regret as he spoke.

"I was never supposed to have him – it was never part of the plan," ranted Sherlock quietly, "I don't know what to do."

"Nobody does," replied John calmly in between sips of tea, "That's parenthood, you're not alone, Sherlock. It takes a village and God knows I abused that a bit after…" he paused, "After Mary's death."

"Those were exceptional circumstances," began Sherlock, every fibre of his being leaning over the table and softly clutching John's hand although his body never moved an inch, "Anybody would have done the same."

"These are extraordinary circumstances too!" retorted John, marvelling briefly at how anyone had ever believed Sherlock was a psychopath, "You've been through a lot these past few-"

"Not nearly as much as y-"

Jesus, did the man really believe that?

"Let me finish," John frowned, latent aggression briefly surfacing to add a sharp snap to the words, "You've been through a lot these past few years, you're still taking in what happened at Sherrinford, me and Rosie only moved in last month and then your son turns up traumatised. Even for you, that's a lot."

Sherlock failed to reply. John suspected that Sherlock was either absorbing what John had said, or was ruthlessly disproving John's statements inside his head. It was impossible to identify which it was simply by looking at him. Despite gradually becoming more open and breaking down the cold, psychopathic traits that he had imitated from his sister – although in true Sherlockian style retaining anything he felt intrinsic or useful – Sherlock was still sometimes very difficult to read. John supposed internally that this was due to the mountainous mound of unspoken feelings and concerns, regrets and hurt that lay between them. Things were improving with time, but there was still some way to go.

"Am I doing the right thing?" asked Sherlock, always appearing more vulnerable when seeking advice – likely why he did it so very infrequently.

"What?" mused John, "You mean the nightmares?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You tell me. You're the one who did all of that research," began John, trying to soften his tone as he spoke, "What's the consensus?"

"Not particularly useful," sighed Sherlock, "I'm trying to stop him doing what I did – deleting the true events, creating false memories and metamorphosing into something, someone else."

"We don't even know if he's capable of doing that."

"Henry Knight managed it and Lawliet is _clever_ ," Sherlock shook his hands through his hair violently, "I don't know what I'm doing, John."

John sighed, attempting a new tack, "Are you trying?"

"Of course, but I don't know if I'm-"

"Are you trying your best?"

"Well, unless you can give me clear parameters providing an objective defini-"

"Sherlock!" snapped John, voice almost a hiss as it filtered through a harsh sigh, "Are you trying your best?"

"Well-"

John glared over his mug.

"Yes," whined Sherlock, "But-"

"No," cut John, "Listen. You are doing your best. You have done more research on this than most psychology students will have done over their entire course. You're taking him to see a therapist and you've been there for him every minute since he got here."

"Yes, but-"

"No!" he cried out, before taking his voice back down in volume, "You are doing a damn slight more for that child than I did for Rosie-"

"That was completely different!" whisper-shouted Sherlock, "You can't compare them."

"Then shut up! You're trying your best, Sherlock. That's all anyone can expect of you. And given you're a genius, I don't think your best is anything we have to worry about."

Sherlock nodded uneasily. It seemed all too clear that they would be repeating this conversation in the near future, much to John's dismay. Times like this, he almost missed the old Sherlock, pre-fall Sherlock, the one that would never have dared demonstrate this kind of vulnerability so openly. However, John could admit that this feeling was likely due to his secret feelings of resentment, misplaced though they might be. Of course, in the warm light of morning, John would pin most of his turbulent, ugly feelings on sleep-deprived grumpiness which, given it was two in the morning, would not be an unjustified conclusion to come to.

"So, how is he?" asked John conversationally whilst taking another sip of his tea, feeling the need for fortification.

"Deeply affected, as one might expect. He was very close to his mother, closer than most I would imagine, certainly closer than I am to my mother-"

"Which is saying something," smirked John.

"Quite," glared Sherlock, his face dropping its vulnerability gradually as he pushed his emotions into the backseat, "He knows objectively that he is safe, but anything he finds reminiscent of the events leading up to the incident seem to shake him. Then, of course, there are the nightmares."

"And have they found who did it? I'm surprised you're not involved."

"You'll be even more surprised to hear that Mycroft very much is."

"Seriously?"

Sherlock hummed, sipping on the tea.

"What?" John grinned, "Legwork and everything?"

Sherlock nodded grimly.

John whistled appreciatively, before pausing, "Why?"

"According to Mycroft," spat Sherlock as though the words had left a bad taste in his mouth, "I am better off here helping Lawliet. I imagine," Sherlock lied – he knew for a fact his next words were true, "Mycroft is trying to atone for some perceived failure."

"How so?"

"I think," Sherlock lied again, "He hoped that Lawliet would be some un-traumatised version of myself; certainly an interesting experiment."

John fell silent for a few short moments as he processed the information before nodding enthusiastically with a mouthful of tea to indicate he had – or at the very least believed that he had – understood what was going on. Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have been sceptical, but John was indeed clever and certainly a great deal more perceptive than many gave him credit for. He seemed to have a better grasp of his brother's motivation than Sherlock did, but that could have been because Sherlock often possessed neither the will nor the interest required to decipher his brother's mind.

"He does seem quite like you."

"I'm rather hoping to prevent that continuing," conceded Sherlock with the same weak smile that had been haunting his face for years, "I just hope I can succeed."

John was silent, quite unsure how to respond to Sherlock's words. They were scathingly self-deprecating on multiple levels in multiple ways. For one, it suggested that Sherlock did not think himself suitable, or likely more accurately, worthy of being imitated in any way. Second, it suggested he did not believe himself capable of successfully raising a child so as to prevent it. Shame burned bright in John's chest as he realised he had been silent in the face of Sherlock's flailing self-worth. Years ago, John would have violently disagreed, but then again, years ago, he might not have ever been fully exposed to this vulnerability.

When it came to solving cases, John had quickly learned to recognise Sherlock's perceived arrogance for what it was: absolute confidence in his abilities. Sherlock knew exactly what he knew and what he did not, what he was capable of and what he was not. Whilst his behaviour seemed arrogant and reckless at a quick glance, Sherlock was fully aware of his abilities. The only areas where he consistently miscalculated were those dominated by feelings. For example, he had often failed to understand why so many officers at New Scotland Yard resented him – not for his intelligence, but rather for the lack of modesty with which he seemed to deploy it. If there was one trait that rankled a Brit faster than any other, it was arrogance and to an ignorant bystander, Sherlock appeared to have it by the truckload.

Now unlearning a lot of the traits he had adopted subconsciously from his sister, Sherlock was being forced to re-evaluate. On a case, he was still magnificent, but recently, his movements had been increments slower. John imagined that Sherlock was still confident in his case-solving abilities, but was struggling to accommodate the new, cleaner, more emotional filter through which he was required to solve them. He was confident at a crime scene when examining a corpse, but more hesitant seconds before approaching a witness than he had been previously. More often than not, he would quickly glance at John, as though for reassurance.

Given the events of and directly preceding Sherrinford, it was little wonder that Sherlock's confidence and self-worth are taken a bit of a tumble. John was in fact surprised that Sherlock had not drowned himself in work. Sherlock had instead opted to take a few cases each month, but nowhere near as many as he was capable of. John had thought his dearest friend would drown himself in work – secure and confident in something he knew so well – but clearly not. Perhaps his confidence had taken such a knock that he no longer felt entirely at home at crime scenes either.

"Stop it," said Sherlock, "I'm fine."

"I don't think you are."

"Yes, well, that may be," began Sherlock, "But you're not either."

Sherlock watched him, as though waiting for a denial.

"No, I'm not. Not really," agreed John, "But we're getting there, right?"

"Indeed."

John smiled.

"Are you at the surgery tomorrow?"

"Yeah, Naveed's still on holiday," nodded John, "Do you want me to have a look at his hands before I go?"

"Thank you," smiled Sherlock, "Mrs Hudson's taking Rosie for a few hours tomorrow."

"Therapy?"

"Mycroft found him," nodded Sherlock, before his face fell into one of the first genuine smiles John had seen throughout the conversation, "With any luck, he won't be a complete idiot."

John chuckled but was drowned out instantly by low groans that were rapidly rising in pitch to become distressed whines. Sherlock was up and out of the kitchen within seconds, pulling open the door to the room before slipping inside and out of view. John sighed to himself, finishing off the now-cold dregs of tea sitting at the bottom of his mug. He remembered – in the early days of his time with Sherlock – waking suddenly to the sound of violin music. Sweat pouring down his face, cold with dread, but red-hot with panic, his focus would gradually hone in on the melody before he drifted off again.

John had, right at the very start, imagined it was a coincidence. After all, he had very much been warned. Looking back now, he could see things differently. Sherlock's soft, squishy, but vulnerable centre had indeed always been there. From the little interaction John had had with Lawliet, it seemed clear that he too had a soft, squishy, vulnerable centre. It had yet to be seen whether that centre would be free and exposed, or whether it would be partially smothered and suffocated by a cold façade as Sherlock's had been for so long.

"Shush, shush," whispered Sherlock softly, audible through the door which was slightly ajar, "You're safe, shush."


	5. Writer's Note I

**The Lying Detective**

 **Writer's Note #1**

I tend to skip over the writer's notes when I'm reading and they do feel a bit clunky when shoved onto the front or end of a chapter. I used to do that, but I quite like the idea of keeping the chapters "clean" (so to speak) from now on.

This is really just to thank anyone reading. Incidentally, if you do have any questions or would like to post a review (not obligatory of course), please don't hesitate to poke me.

This is basically the darkest of the dark timelines. So, that means I'm taking from the canon everywhere I can. In case that wasn't already clear, of course. I won't be doing many notes because I'm hoping the writing or the story will resolve anything that might otherwise go in a note.

Anyways, I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it.


	6. Chapter 03

**The Lying Detective**

 **Chapter 3**

 **5th December**

 **Three hours before L's TV broadcast**

It was impossible to work as a detective, particularly one occasionally solving murders, without encountering psychopaths. L did not exclusively solve murders, but when he did, they tended to be the work of psychopaths or savages. Thus, he had more than enough experience with psychopaths to see straight through the façade of normalcy that Lind L. Tailor was currently trying to present. Psychopaths and savages are the worst kind of monsters for they lie constantly. They present normality so graphically that it is impossible to identify them before they have your dead or dying or soon-to-be dead body in their grasp. L had many things in common with a psychopath, he thought, but he knew that if he were ever to truly meet one, it would likely be his end.

Meeting Lind L. Tailor though? That did not count because, one way or another, that man was dying within the next 24 hours. Whether his death would be caused by lethal injection or Kira very much remained to be seen. This was why L had no qualms about acquiescing to the serial killer's request, if it could be called that. In truth, it was closer to blackmail than a final request. When asked if he would read out a speech whilst pretending to be L at the ICPO, Tailor had immediately agreed – as L knew he would (the man was one of the most narcissistic psychopaths L had ever come across in his many years of detective work) – on the condition that he get to meet L. The demand went further, of course, as Tailor had requested to _see_ L, to really _meet_ him.

L was viciously protective of his identity and he had gone to truly impressive lengths to guarantee its safety over the years. However, without Tailor's cooperation, proving his theories to the ICPO and the Japanese police would be significantly more challenging. To ensure Tailor's cooperation with the broadcast and because dead men cannot share secrets, not that Tailor would share a secret of this magnitude even if he had the opportunity, L agreed to the meeting. L had, of course, set his own conditions; after all, dead men cannot talk, but gossipy prison wardens most certainly can. He did not trust the wardens an inch, but Watari had assured him the room was completely free of bugs and L trusted Watari implicitly.

"Are you going to show me your face?"

L's laptop had been placed in the room minutes earlier by Watari, who was in a neighbouring room watching through the one-way glass with keen eagle eyes. With the laptop screen facing the wall and not visible from any angle other than the one Tailor was occupying, L's identity was as safe as it could be under the circumstances. Any reveal was littered with danger and risk, but the dangers and risks posed by exposure to Tailor had been analysed to within an inch of their lives. The only thing L could not account for was Tailor's behaviour, but L was pretty sure that would not be a problem; after all, L was just the type of individual Tailor had liked to target.

"Of course," stated L calmly, "But, as agreed, the voice modulator stays on."

"Of course," agreed Tailor, who would have been a perfect picture of indifference had it not been for the impatient, excited energy flitting about his eyes.

L smirked to himself slightly, before rapidly schooling his face and morphing his expression into one of mild discomfort. L clicked what was perhaps the most rarely used button in his possession and the webcam sprang into life, capturing his image and transmitting it thousands of miles away to a laptop sitting on a desk in a room in a prison. L had been awake for 48 consecutive hours attempting to get the ICPO onside at the meeting yesterday whilst simultaneously setting up this ethically-debatable scenario to prove that Kira did indeed exist and was murdering individuals around the world. As a result, L more closely resembled one of Tailor's victims than he normally would (his efforts to look uncomfortable and awkward likely only reinforced the look).

If Tailor had previously held a mask of indifference over his lying face, it rapidly disintegrated as his dark eyes roved over the figure before him on the screen. Tailor's face simultaneously brightened – in excitement no doubt – and softened – part of the act he had put on oh so very often to lure in his entirely unsuspecting victims. The transformation was not as obvious as many might have expected it to be, but was instead made visible by only the subtlest shifts in body language and expression. Psychopaths are masters of manipulation, hiding everything they do not want you to see until their great reveal, and Lind L. Tailor was no exception.

"You're younger than I expected," said Tailor.

"Please refrain from discussing any of my features," stated L, speaking just 3% faster than normal to project growing discomfort – false discomfort obviously – to the serial killer before him.

Tailor's answering smile was kind, but the onlookers behind the one-way mirror all failed to suppress a shiver. The small room was uncomfortably full: Watari, watching the proceedings seemingly dispassionately; the prison guards, both of whom were dressed as secret service personnel for the broadcast due to take place in just under three hours; two FBI agents, curious to watch the world's greatest detective interact with one of the very few serial killers he had only been involved in catching indirectly; two CIA agents, there on the command of the president; and two Interpol delegates. They had all read up on Tailor's case before the meeting, so his apparently benign comments were seen through an uncomfortably stark and disturbing filter.

"I'm very sorry, L," said Taylor, his mind purring with excitement, rumbling like a powerful engine at a set of traffic lights, "You aren't at all what I expected."

"Yes," acknowledged L, no longer having to entirely feign his discomfort as Tailor's eyes raked over him like a drowning man glimpsing shore, "Well, I suppose we have that much in common."

"What do you mean?" asked Tailor, his face almost amusingly caught between being surprised by the comment and being offended that L dare compare himself to _him_.

"I don't expect any of your victims would have suspected an apparently mild-mannered doctor of being a sexually-motivated serial killer."

"No," smiled Tailor, "They didn't."

"Although I am surprised more of your colleagues didn't suspect you might not be entirely normal," sighed L thoughtfully, "But then most people struggle to identify true narcissism. Why did you want to see me, Tailor? You could have requested anything – within reason – in your final hours and yet you chose to have a half-hour meeting with me. Why?"

"Oh," smirked Tailor.

 _Interesting,_ mused L, almost losing the mask of discomfort he had on his face, _He thinks he knows something I don't. He still has a secret. What could it be? Oh. Could it? No, they had a witness who saw them get on the bus. Unless… the timelines did line up, I always thought as much. But they were on that bus – witnesses saw an old man and a young man getting on and off that bus… No, there was always something about this case that didn't sit right with me – could this be it? It would fit with Tailor's behaviour. In fact, it perfectly explains everything about Tailor's behaviour._

"I just wanted to meet the boy who caught me."

 _Boy,_ L remembered, lifting his thumb up to his bottom lip and worrying the skin around the nail as he pondered Tailor's words, _Tailor has a habit of using 'boy' and 'girl'. He has never once used them to refer to anyone but his victims. When trying to insult or demean others – his colleagues, the arresting officers, the prison wardens – he uses 'child', sometimes 'baby' if he's feeling particularly vicious. So why am I a boy? I need pictures. I think there is a strong possibility that I resemble that young man and that that young man might in fact have been Tailor's last victim – the one the FBI thought had got away just in time._

The question was how to get the images without letting Tailor know that something was going on. The whole top half of L's body was visible on screen, so L would have to be exceptionally careful about sliding his mobile out of his right pocket: Tailor would no doubt notice any significant muscle movements – predators so often do. The key then was distracting Tailor so that L could get a message to Watari. Perhaps, if he was manipulative enough and Tailor stupid enough, he might be able to push Tailor into confessing without L even needing the photos to confirm his suspicions of Tailor's guilt.

"That would be a gross overestimation of my involvement in your case," stated L, "I can assure you that the police would have caught you without my help."

"But would they have found me before little Bobby and his grandad got away?"

 _He did!_ exclaimed L internally, _This is exactly what I think it is. This is Tailor's last hurrah – he's celebrating the fact that he completely fooled us all. He thinks he's outsmarted the greatest detective in the world and wants the satisfaction of knowing he bested me before he dies. The fact he will be imitating me when addressing the world only makes his victory all the sweeter. But why am I the boy? Do I look like him? Is it a coincidence, or was Tailor aware that we looked alike – if we do indeed look alike – before he requested this meeting? Is this his final victory – besting the detective he seems to wrongly believe responsible for his arrest and smirking at his long-dead victim, safe in the knowledge that only he knows?_

"Robert Jonas Davidson was twenty-seven years old, Tailor," replied L, rapidly tapping off a message to Watari without the barest glance at the phone he'd managed to wrestle out of his pocket, "And over six foot. He was hardly little."

Tailor smirked, but this time, it almost looked like the man was biting his lip slightly. He was holding himself back, desperate to let something slip out that he knew he should not – likely something deeply satisfying but starkly incriminating. With each second that passed, L was increasingly certain that Tailor had indeed reached and killed Robert Davidson and his grandfather. With each second that passed, L was increasingly certain that Tailor had already found his next victims – probably the young man and grandfather glimpsed boarding and exiting the bus. With each passing second, Tailor's smirk grew wider and more confident and L became increasingly certain that this psychopath had expressed concern to his next victims and bought them tickets under the name of Davidson.

 _Buzz-buzz._

Two buzzes meant yes. Watari had looked at the image and confirmed L's suspicions: L looked like Robert Jonas Davidson, enough alike that Tailor was likely bubbling inside with excitement. The question now was whether Tailor knew. There were two equally probable answers to this question. The first: no, it was a coincidence that Tailor could not help but exploit. The second: yes, Tailor somehow knew that L looked similar to Robert and had sought the meeting so that he could bathe in the joy of taunting his final victim and the detective he – again falsely – believed responsible for his capture. If it was the first, there was no need for concern, but if it was the second, L needed to rapidly uncover how Tailor got hold of this information and who else might know.

"You know," began Tailor, apparently unable to stop himself going by the smile he was no longer able to hide from his face, "There are a lot of medical conferences in LA."

 _Of course!_ shouted L within his mind, before interrupting Tailor with his voice, "When did he tell you?"

"What?" asked Tailor, seeming genuinely surprised by the question, "Who?"

"Beyond Birthday," stated L calmly, almost amused by Tailor's apparent shock, "When did he tell you?"

"Who?"

"Tailor," sighed L, "You killed Robert Jonas Davidson and his grandfather, Patrick Michael Davidson. You had two other victims lined up, but you knew the net was closing in so you sent them out of town on a bus in tickets under the name of Davidson – you probably told them false names would make them safer. You requested _this_ meeting so you could taunt me with that very fact, but you didn't need to see my face to taunt me, which suggests something else.

'You called me boy. It might have been a slip on your part, but unlikely. Somehow you knew in advance that I look similar to your last victim. If you had done any research, you would have known that I'm a recluse, that no one has ever seen me – exactly like all of your other victims, but to know what I look like? You must have spoken to someone who either knows or, at the very least, _believes_ they know. You regularly attended medical conferences in LA – you just confirmed as much yourself – and you were in LA during the BB murders. So either you met him when he was in LA, or you heard about the case and contacted him some point after he had been arrested, possibly posing as a doctor interested in his psychopathology. So, I'll ask again, when did he tell you?"

Tailor seemed to express a multitude of emotions in response to L's little flurry of deductions and, for more than a minute, L strongly suspected that the conversation may end with his laptop being launched across the room. Thankfully though, because the laptop was hardly cheap, Tailor managed to control his base impulse to childishly launch it from the table. Instead, Tailor clenched his fists and huffed out harshly through his nose, nostrils flaring in anger despite Tailor's best efforts to suppress it. This was a man who had been thoroughly bested after thinking he had won the game and was gracefully accepting his defeat.

"He came up to me in a coffee shop," began Tailor, "He told me that he knew what I was, what I did. He told me that the game was up if the police ever brought in an outside expert and then he told me what this expert looked like, said he knew I'd _like_ it. To be honest, I thought he was mad, brushed him off as just some random lunatic, but then I heard about his arrest. Then, a while later, the local news here said that the police had been approached by a renowned international expert – suspected to be the same one involved in the LA BB murder case. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence then."

L nodded thoughtfully. It came of no surprise, of course, that his successor-turned-killer would have been able to identify another murdering psychopath, or that he would have deigned to share information about L's appearance with a psychopath such as Tailor. The only surprise was that L had not suspected something like this might happen. Retrospectively, such an outcome was indeed inevitable: L could see all of the pieces slotting together neatly like a perfect jigsaw puzzle lain out on a desk in front of him. It seemed that, even dead, B had succeeded in taunting him once more and, because L was incredibly childish, he wished his successor alive – if only briefly – so that he could get back at him somehow.

The room fell into silence, punctuated every now and again by Tailor's breathing. L assumed – unfortunately quite correctly – that Tailor's continued elevated breathing was due to arousal, unsurprising given how very neatly L ticked all of the boxes required to be one of the psychopath's victims. Knowing that did not even slightly alleviate the discomfort it caused L to be exposed to such psychotic perversion. The matter was made worse by the likelihood that L's increasing levels of discomfort were causing Tailor greater excitement. In moments like this, L felt he often came closest to understanding how Kira's mind worked, because who could not sit opposite a man like Tailor and not think the world would be better off for his absence?

It was not just Tailor's crimes that were horrifying, although they were indeed quite horrifying on their own. His crimes were made all the more disturbing by his position and his choice of victims. He was a doctor specialising in the treatment of trauma victims, reputable due to his regular work with the FBI, CIA, VA and various intelligence agencies from allied countries. His victims, unsurprisingly, were isolated and living indoors, sleepless and anxious, exhausted and alone. It was why – despite Tailor's crimes and the ensuing investigation being well-publicised – the man's arrest and sentence was not. It was L's experience that governments and agencies will quite often let a case go apparently unsolved to keep the public in the dark about aspects of the case that were best left unknown.

"Do you really think this Kira-person will kill me?" asked Tailor, the mask of normalcy almost completely gone now that L had apparently morphed into one of his victims.

"I'm almost certain of it." stated L.

"Do you want to give me that as a percentage?" asked Tailor, his smirk indicating that he was less concerned about potentially being killed by Kira than he was interested in coaxing conversation out of his newest 'victim'.

"52%." replied L.

"52% is 'almost certain'?" asked Tailor, leaning forward out of his seat slightly as though having forgotten that L was just an image on a laptop screen and attempting to approach him, "That seems a bit low."

"Perhaps."

"And if you're wrong?" Tailor said, almost hugging the laptop to his chest and eyes pouring through the webcam connection, "If Kira doesn't kill me?"

"Then we will."

 _Buzz. KLANG._

"Time's up, Tailor," hissed the prison warden, gesturing Tailor over so that he could snap handcuffs over his wrists, "Get moving."

Tailor got up slowly, but elegantly, like a jaguar slinking through the jungle undergrowth. He smiled smugly at L as he moved out of the laptop's range of vision, looking very much like the cat that had caught the canary. If L was not so sure that the man was soon to die at Kira's hands, he would almost consider being concerned and investigating. As it was, Tailor's attitude likely stemmed from his belief that he would not be killed. Despite the prison warden's confidence that they would kill him if Kira did not, both L and Tailor knew that there this was no longer the case: now that new information had been revealed, the FBI would want to investigate. Such action would, of course, only postpone Taylor's inevitable demise and the entire scenario was hypothetical at best – L was almost certain Kira would kill Tailor before they finished broadcasting around Japan.

L turned off his webcam, just in case one of the prison wardens decided to take a peek as they were manhandling handcuffs onto Tailor's wrists. Distantly off-camera, L could hear jostling as Tailor was manoeuvred out of the room and someone – presumably Watari – entered. As a familiar black-cladded figure sat neatly into the chair in front of him, L realised two things: firstly, Watari had been scared/concerned/worried (it was difficult to distinguish between the three with the balaclava in the way); secondly, Watari had been disturbed by B's presence in an otherwise unrelated case.

" _Yes_ ," began L in Japanese, " _Watari?_ "

" _Are you alright?_ " asked Watari, his tone obscuring his feelings perfectly so as not to tip off the non-Japanese speakers undoubtedly eavesdropping on the conversation despite not understanding the words passing between them, " _B…_ "

" _Is dead, Watari,_ " assured L, " _MH confirmed as much._ "

" _Might he have told others?_ " queried Watari, still very much sounding like he was discussing the weather or what to eat for lunch rather than something that deeply concerned him.

" _Unless he happened to bump into any other murderous psychopaths, the chances of which are astronomically slim,_ " reassured L softly with an affectionate smile, " _I don't think we have anything to worry about._ "

Watari nodded, " _I understand._ "

" _Is everything ready for the broadcast?_ "

" _Of course,_ " smiled Watari, slowly returning to himself as L's reassurances and confidence seeped in, " _But I should probably leave to monitor the proceedings regardless._ "

" _Thank you,_ " smiled L in return, knowing Watari would hear it even if he could not see it, " _Watari._ "

The screen cut out. The wait began.

* * *

 **5th December**

 **L's TV broadcast**

Everything was ready. The ICPO and the Japanese police were watching, ready for L to either prove his theories – inevitable of course – or prove himself a fool – L found it amusingly quaint that there were still those who harboured resentment against him despite never having met him and the fact they worked on the same side. Watari was standing by, ready to activate the systems that would allow L to hijack the frequency and directly confront Kira. Tailor was buzzing with excitement behind his plinth and the Japanese interpreter L had hired to interpret Tailor's English apprised of the likely progression of events.

 _The broadcast will be announced. Tailor will read the script. Something Tailor does will likely provoke Kira; knowing Tailor as well as I do, it seems quite likely that Tailor will smirk at some point – probably on the word evil – he won't be able to help himself. Kira will kill Tailor. Then, I will confront Kira,_ thought L, running through his thoughts one final time, _Watari knows that much. Maybe I should have told him that I'm planning on taunting Kira into killing me? He's not getting any younger…_

Just as L was genuinely considering contacting and warningWatari of what he considered a perfectly safe course of action, the broadcast began. L's face appeared impassive, but his eyes were alight with curiosity and excitement. His blood thrummed through his veins powerfully, but his body was still; all his senses were trained on the live footage relayed before him. L's body was pumped with enough adrenaline to give some athletes a run for their money, but nothing in L's posture or expression gave even the barest hint of the processes going on inside. He was still as a trained sniper and his sights were trained on Kira.

The broadcast alone would provide valuable insight into the case. Although L had seen video footage of some of Kira's victims, CCTV footage could be doctored and the list of countries that used it consistently was irritatingly short. This broadcast would be live and pure. Even if the footage was somehow doctored, Watari was there in person to give an eyewitness account if the need arose. The broadcast itself would hopefully provide some insight into how Kira killed, perhaps verifying one of the many theories that L had mistakenly dismissed, or perhaps confirming the existence of some new method of killing. At the very least, the broadcast would not only reveal that Kira existed, but also that they were a murderer.

Contrary to popular belief, L had not entirely dismissed the idea that they may very well be dealing with some greater power. Given the evidence, and L's own atheism, it seemed the very unlikeliest of possibilities. The fact that all of the information about the victims was publicly available, the fact that victims identified exclusively in a foreign language other than Japanese or English had escaped 'punishment' so far and the fact that the killings had all started so suddenly suggested otherwise. No religion's God, or gods, had ever shown interest in actively shaping the world before, so why would they start now? No, all of this reeked of human interference. It was all too neat, planned, choreographed, but equally too limited, restricted, and small in scope.

"… however, what you're doing right now is evil."

 _Oh, and there's the smirk._

In truth, calling it a smirk might have been underestimating the thing contorting Tailor's face. It was wide, victorious and taunting. He was sympathetic, but condescending and patronising. It was the smile of someone who had seen and perpetrated evil. It was the face of someone who found this brand of evil cute and quaint. It was the smirk of a man who thought that L was wrong, that he would live to see another day, that he would not be killed. L frowned. It was also the face of a man who had stopped reading out the script he was supposed to be reading, apparently because he did not think it was necessary anymore.

With any luck, Kira would not have noticed that Tailor had stopped speaking, would not suspect anything amiss with a man stopping halfway through his speech and smirking at the camera. L had suspected that Tailor might not play ball, but what other choice did he have? He needed this broadcast. It was necessary to smoke Kira out, to show the ICPO and other law enforcement agencies that _they were wrong_. The ICPO thought that 52 criminals had died so far, but that was all they could confirm with national police agencies smudging numbers and obscuring deaths. L needed to prove that Kira existed and hopefully, Tailor's little stunt had not…

 _What?_

L's eyes widened. His impassive face evaporated. His mouth fell open. His heart felt like it had come to a complete stop inside his chest. In imitation, it seemed, of Tailor's heart.

 _I didn't…_

It was not until that very moment that L realised he had not actually, truly expected that he would be right. Academically, he knew he was right, but seeing it unfold? Watching as Tailor clutched his chest, heaving for breath that would do him no good, his eyes wide and frantic as they stared into the camera accusatorily, before he collapsed head first onto the desk in front of him? Watching as the prison wardens quickly moved onto the screen and began dragging off Tailor's now dead and cooling body from the plinth he had so delighted in standing behind just minutes earlier? It was suddenly all _real_ and all the more horrifying for it.

L tried to calm himself. He activated his microphone, transmitting the signals that allowed him to hijack the frequency, projecting his signature onto screens and his voice through speakers across the Kanto region of Japan. He sucked in a fortifying breath, but it did nothing to alleviate the shakiness that permeated his speech as he began.

" _I had to test this just in case, but I,_ " L stuttered in Japanese, still trying to wrap his head around observing a brand new method of killing, one entirely unlike anything that had ever existed before, " _I never thought it would actually happen. Kira, it seems you can kill people without having to be there in person. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't just witnessed it._ "

L felt his nerves steadying, his confidence returning as he wrapped himself in his deductions, " _Listen to me, Kira, if you did indeed kill, Lind L. Tailor – the man you just saw die on television – I should tell you that he was an inmate whose execution was scheduled for today. That was not me. The police arrested him in absolute secrecy so you wouldn't have heard about it on TV or through the Internet – it appears that not even you have access to information about these types of criminals. But I assure you, L is real: I do exist._ "

Watari was going to be less than impressed.

" _Now try to kill me!_ "


	7. Chapter 04

**The Lying Detective**

 **Chapter 4**

 **9** **th** **October**

 **Two months after L's arrival**

Mrs Hudson smiled fondly and secretively, hiding her face from the keen-eyed onlooker by facing towards the hob. She was, of course, pretending not to notice. If she had gone to the effort of noticing, she seriously doubted her ability to keep the smile off her face, not that she was doing a particularly good job whilst trying to hide her face. She returned her attention to the matter at hand: melting bars of chocolate in a glass bowl over a pan of simmering water. Behind her, ostensibly cooling on a rack, were the fairy cakes. Given how long they had been cooling, they would be ready as soon as the chocolate had fully melted. Unless, of course, the young man sitting at the island table behind her had eaten them all before that point.

It had been a sudden thing, but then when you do not work a job, spontaneity is somewhat less problematic. She had been disrupted – about as violently as usual – by Sherlock pounding at her door. The pounding, she knew immediately, was indicative of excitement and urgency, but nothing untoward. Unsurprisingly, she had opened the door to an excited, but conflicted Sherlock. From the glean in his eyes, Mrs Hudson could tell that this case had enraptured his fullest attention, and so it spoke volumes that he was not standing at her door at all.

Years ago, Sherlock would have sprang out of the house like a wind-up toy, abandoning everything and anything except the case at hand, but since his association with John, his return and the events of Sherrinford (which she had received only the briefest summary of), it was clear that his priorities had shifted slightly. Not significantly of course – Sherlock would always focus wholly on a case that caught his attention – but noticeably nonetheless. This is why he was dressed ready to leave the building, despite clutching a small child's hand in his and cradling Rosie in the elbow of his other arm whilst standing in front of the door to Mrs Hudson's flat.

She had assured Sherlock that she could look after them before he had even opened his mouth to speak, gently taking Rosie from his elbow and smiling softly at the lovely young boy still clutching Sherlock's hand like a lifeline. Sherlock followed her eyes, smiling beautifully and squeezing softly before extricating his hand, ruffling the boy's already unruly hair and charging out of the building with a huge grin. Rather than taking the pair into her flat, she gently ushered the boy upstairs and followed, carrying Rosie securely in one arm. John likely would have been horrified, but Sherlock knew that Mrs Hudson was, at least for the time being, perfectly capable of carrying Rosie up the stairs.

A week after the boy's arrival, Sherlock had crept down the stairs and gently knocked on Mrs Hudson's door, clutching a baby monitor in his hand. It was during the ensuing conversation, spoken in whispered, hushed murmurs and creaking, stuttering tones that Mrs Hudson learned about Lawliet. Anything Sherlock did not state explicitly was clear enough from the hidden messages he seemed to be unknowingly producing. One prime example of this was that, despite the boy's name being Lawliet, he was to be called Lowe. She was wise enough and old enough to put all the pieces together and make an educated guess as to why his name might have to be changed.

"Are they ready for the chocolate now," she asked, observing that the chocolate had fully melted, "Dear?"

The pause that followed would have been suspiciously long if she had not known that Lowe had been secretly snatching and scoffing the fairy cakes from the rack upon which they were cooling. Plastering a look of confusion onto her face (and masterfully smothering her smile), she turned around, switching the gas off elegantly as she did. The view that greeted her did not surprise her in the slightest, but, even as she set her face into an expression of disapproval, she could feel her lips fighting their way into a fond, affectionate smile. Not even her admittedly excellent acting skills could withstand the full onslaught that the vision before her imposed.

One plain fairy cake in each hand, Lowe's eyes were wide with guilt and the skin on his cheeks was pulled taught by the excess of cake shoved into his mouth. Crumbs generously carpeted the table in front of him and his nostrils were flared wide as his body sought the oxygen that his cake-stuffed mouth was denying it. His usually pale face was slowly, but surely, colouring red as his apparent guilt began to manifest itself visually. The sight made her suddenly very envious of Sherlock's mother.

"Lowe!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson, sounding decidedly more amused and less reprimanding than she intended, "Have you been eating the fairy cakes?"

It was, of course, a stupid question – she had caught him cake-handed and the evidence was undeniable. Amusingly, Lowe himself seemed to be caught between three responses: the first of which was shaking his head and childishly denying guilt despite the very condemning evidence laying before him; the second of which was elegantly and gracefully admitting defeat and accepting what inevitable punishment might come his way; and third, expressing his utter disdain and disapproval that such a stupid question had been voiced in his presence. The resulting conflict fought between the three expressions produced a picture that Mrs Hudson found to be even more precious than the one that preceded it.

"You're lucky you didn't burn your mouth!" she reprimanded softly, managing to sound just the right side of disapproving adult, "I hope you left enough for-"

Looking down to the rack to begin counting the remaining cakes, a small scribbled note caught her attention. Mrs Hudson had not known Lowe for particularly long, but was familiar enough with John, Sherlock and Mycroft's handwriting to identify that Lowe must have been responsible for the scrawl. Going by the faint smudges of grease – from the butter in the cooling cakes – on the edges of the paper, he had written it whilst he was munching down on what he had calculated as being the right number of cakes. The list, in Lowe's incredibly messy handwriting read:

 _Rosie x 1, John x 2, Dad x 1, Myc x 5, Dr Johnson x 1, Mrs H x 3, Me x 6._

"Why does Mycroft get five?" asked Mrs Hudson, suspecting she already knew the answer.

Lowe's answer was muddled and muzzled by the cake still in his mouth.

"And why do you get six?" she asked with a smile, pleasantly amused by how very childish he seemed to still be in spite of everything, "You won't be able to eat your dinner if you have all of those."

Lowe's answer – likely a retort going by the tone – was again smothered almost completely by the cake that he was still trying to swallow.

"How are we going to make sure that _you_ don't eat all of them," she asked, already having planned a perfect solution, "Young man?"

Lowe gasped, cake all gone (except the two yet to be shovelled into his mouth), "Letters."

"How?"

"We write letters on the top of the chocolate – maybe in white chocolate?" thought Lowe aloud whilst softly massaging the surface of one cake in his hand, "But we need to make sure the chocolate's set properly first. I tried doing it too fast once and Mom's M went all-"

He cut himself off abruptly, red cheeks seeming to pale alarmingly quickly. Mrs Hudson was about to run around the table and drag him into the bathroom, so concerned she was that the paleness might be more closely related to his overconsumption of cake rather than the influx of emotions. She watched sympathetically as his face seemed to cycle through a series of emotions, her heart aching in her chest as she did so. Sherlock had been taking Lowe to see a therapist, had read excessively on how to help and had generally been doing everything in his power to ensure that Lowe processed his trauma and grief in a healthier and more effective manner than Sherlock himself had. Mrs Hudson could already see some of the progress that had been made, but there was no magic cure for healing grief or trauma.

"We could buy the letters."

"What?!" erupted Lowe, equal parts excitement and disbelief as Mrs Hudson successfully extracted him from wherever his mind had been headed, "You can _buy_ them?"

"Sainsbury's will have some," she nodded, "We'll just get these cakes coated, give Rosie some time to wake up and then we'll head out."

Lowe beamed at her, shoving the cakes he had been holding into his mouth to free up his hands. Pushing against the table to extract his feet from underneath his bottom, he then slinked towards Mrs Hudson. He picked up two additional cakes, unusually not destined for his mouth (full as it was with two cakes), and passed them to her, watching with a mild smile as the cakes were dunked and twisted into the thick, milk chocolate. As she watched his smile out of the corner of her eye, she wondered how differently the story might have gone had Lowe not been taken in by Sherlock and John.

* * *

As it turned out, Sainsbury's did not have the white chocolate letters that Mrs Hudson had envisaged. They did instead have solid sugar toppings in various different designs. She had not timed how long they stood on that aisle whilst Lowe debated the advantages and disadvantages of each of the different designs, but it was long enough for Rosie to fall back asleep, despite her being otherwise very awake and lively. It had not helped in the slightest that Lowe had been rather enraptured by all of the items on the aisle. Everything lining the shelves seemed to grab his attention: the self-raising flour (what do you mean it has baking powder _in_ it already?), the ready-made icing (what chemicals make it _that_ blue?), the edible ball bearings (are you _sure_ you can eat those?), etc.

Whilst walking back, Mrs Hudson wondered whether Sherlock had any idea that his biological son was so enamoured with cakes and baking. She was rather certain that he could not anticipate the volume of cake-topping paraphernalia that was about to line his now-healthy kitchen shelves. Lowe's enthusiasm had taken her aback slightly, particularly the fervour with which he was now reading the ingredient list on the back of the sky-blue, spread-on icing that they had purchased from the shop.

In fact, Lowe was so fascinated by the contents of the ingredients list that he likely would have carried on walking down the road none the wiser were it not for Mrs Hudson calling after him. As she searched inside her bag for the key, retrieving it and neatly placing it in the lock, Rosie began to grumble and groan, waking up now that the soothing, constant movement of the pram had ended abruptly. Leaving the key in the door and turning around to beam and welcome Rosie into the world of the awake, she was a little surprised to see Lowe had got there first.

Right hand still clutched around the icing, his left hand was gently gripping the pushchair and he was leaning forward, greeting Rosie softly. Mrs Hudson's ears – still rather sharp despite her only increasing age – could make out hushed German whispers and delighted, though groggy responses. She could not understand the German, but she was fairly certain that it was some sort of song or nursery rhyme based on its rhythmic nature. Regardless of its foreign nature, Rosie certainly seemed to be enjoying it if the cheerful squeaks and squeals were anything to go by.

"Will you take the bags in for me, dear?" she asked, gently swinging the door open and removing the key in one elegant movement.

Lowe nodded, lifting the bright orange Sainsbury's bags off the pushchair's handles and carrying them into the house. Mrs Hudson turned around and cooed at Rosie as she pulled the pushchair into the lobby. As she stepped around the pushchair to close the door, she heard noises from upstairs. Once the door was securely closed and she had checked her pocket to ensure that she had not left the key inside the door, she turned around and observed Lowe staring at the door at the top of the stairs. There was little doubt in her mind that if _she_ had heard that John and Sherlock were upstairs, then so too had Lowe (and likely even Rosie going by the volume emanating from the first floor flat).

"You're an idiot!" came the very distinctive, familiar shout, "A complete, bloody idiot!"

"You didn't hear any of that," shushed Mrs Hudson in Lowe's ear conspiratorially, "Okay?"

Mrs Hudson, in discussions with her friends, had often expressed her surprise at how mild John truly was. None of her friends believed her of course – they had unfortunately all been present one day when John had decided that he had had enough of Sherlock's antics that week. Yet, despite being a military man, John's vocabulary was somewhat cleaner than she would have imagined. She had no doubt that Lowe already knew more insults and British curses than when he arrived and that Rosie would have a particularly interesting vocabulary – in fact she suspected that Sherlock had been trying to keep her out of nursery just to avoid the inevitable series of questions that would arise – but at least neither of them would hear swear words from John's mouth.

Sherlock's response was too quiet for Mrs Hudson to make out. Going by the intense, focused frown on Lowe's face, he had not heard his father's response either. Rosie, if her garbled squeal of delight was anything to go, was blissfully ignorant that anything was going on around her.

John's gasp – a bizarre cross between a huff and a gasp – was not audible, but Mrs Hudson was quite sure that it was the only noise that could have preceded John's dismayed response, "He had a _chainsaw_ , Sherlock!"

Mrs Hudson did not have time to consider that she should cover up Lowe's ears as she was too busy processing the words that she had heard echo down the stairs. In the time it had taken Mrs Hudson to fully process not only the words that she had heard, but the potential consequences and ramifications of those words, Lowe had dropped the two shopping bags he had been holding and had begun running up the stairs, gracefully leaping over every other step. She watched him stumble as he turned the corner, feet moving too slow for his mind as he sought to reach the room as quickly as possible with a determination more fervent and desperate than she ever would have thought probable.

As she heard the door to Sherlock and John's flat slam open, causing the carefully stacked newspapers behind it to crumple to the floor, she was caught between running up the stairs and retrieving Rosie. Cursing her age mentally, she turned towards the pushchair. She could not simply leave Rosie downstairs to check on what was going on upstairs, despite how strong the urge to do so was burning through her veins. Pulling Rosie up and holding her against her chest, Mrs Hudson began to walk up the stairs, passing the fallen orange shopping bags on her way.

All noise had seemed to cease abruptly from the flat upstairs. Her footsteps seemed to boom around the void. Rosie's soft breathing glided over her right ear in regular intervals. She strained to hear anything from the flat she was slowly approaching, but could not make out anything over Rosie's breaths, her own sounds of exertion and the clatter of her slightly-heeled shoes against the staircase. Her concern was growing as she reached the top of the stairs and still could not hear anything from the flat. She tried to reassure herself, telling herself that perhaps they were just speaking quietly.

"I'm fine, I'm okay," came a voice, as exasperated-sounding as it was reassuring, "Just some scratches."

"It really is okay," came another, slightly softer, "Your idiot of a father doesn't even need stitches this time."

Now positioned at the top of the stairs, relief flushed through her powerfully and swept away the worst of her concern. Mrs Hudson carried Rosie in through the door, shutting it behind her before placing her on the floor next to some toy that she had strewn across the floor earlier in the day. Staying close to Rosie for the time being, Mrs Hudson glanced over towards Sherlock's chair and where both John and Lowe were crowding into Sherlock's personal space.

John had pulled up a chair and was sitting just left of the chair. His medical kit was on the floor next to his feet, opened and with much of the contents spilling out messily. One elbow was balancing on the arm of the chair next to a translucent yellow bag that was visibly full with red-stained gauze. Stretched across his hands were blue nitrile gloves that were themselves spotted with reddish flecks, turning several sections of the blue gloves purple. He was looking between Lowe and Sherlock, his face shifting between sympathetic, concerned frown and irritated, exasperated frown as his eyes flitted between their targets.

Sherlock's shirt – white and destined for the bin if the neat slashes and red-brown stains were anything to go by – was crumpled up carelessly on the floor, presumably as the blood had already dried by that point given the lecture she had threatened to give them if they stained her carpet again. Sherlock himself was bare-chested, adorned haphazardly with various neat cuts that occasionally intersected to form lattice patterns. He looked weary and tired, as if he had overexerted himself in his attempts to escape whatever criminal had decided to try and cut him up that particular day – she presumed.

Lowe was practically sitting in the chair; he was leaning so far into Sherlock's personal space that one small push would be enough to send him sprawling into his biological father's chest. His two hands were dancing across Sherlock's chest, mindfully and carefully springing over the cuts and between segments of clear, unharmed skin. He leant back slightly, glancing quickly at Sherlock's wrists before pulling them into his small hands to check his right arm for cuts and grazes before repeating the process with Sherlock's left arm.

"Lowe," reassured John with fervent eyes as he pulled off his gloves and placed them inside the yellow bag, "He's really, honestly fine."

They would never know whether Lowe had heard John or not because he continued with his checks entirely unfazed. Lowe's movements were deafening noises rumbling deeply in volumes only the adults could hear. The very detectable shudder present throughout his checks; the soft, hiccupped pants and matching brief and punctuated chest movements; the apparent collected calmness of the movements betrayed every time he moved from one spot to the next by the jagged speed with which they were performed: it was the equivalent of a shrill, ringing alarm to the adults in the room.

"Lowe," began Sherlock, moving his right arm to gently cup the boy's cheek, "I really am fine."

Lowe stopped abruptly. Silence, interrupted only by the harsh bangs and clanks of Rosie smashing one toy against another, reigned for a few short seconds before it was conquered by a sharp, whined gasp and a quieter, shocked intake of breath. Glancing quickly away to check Rosie, Mrs Hudson turned back to observe all three males staring at a singular spot, a singular scar, on Sherlock's chest. She could see Lowe's hand hovering over the spot, his thumb gently massaging the exact position of the injury. The scene held for a little over ten seconds before Lowe glanced up and met Sherlock's eyes.

"It was a long time ago," explained Sherlock. His voice was soft and quiet, strangled as it was by the silence, "I'm fine."

Had she not already seen the speed with which Lowe could move – having just minutes earlier seen him launch himself up the stairs – she would have marvelled at the speed with which he stormed out of the room and into Sherlock's, door slamming aggressively in his wake. The slamming door seemed to have imposed true silence because the terrible volume of the door colliding harshly into its frame had stolen even Rosie's attention, her hands pausing mid-strike to listen out for further noises. The silence was perforated by a wailing siren as a flash of red and blue tore down the street outside.


End file.
